wet bendy needles

O I wish I had a river I could skate away on

It finally rained for a long time, in the night, and I missed it while sleeping. It's still raining now, like wet bendy needles or feathertips and I wish it would pour and storm sensationally. Something is wrong with my faithful 6-year-old speakers, so that The Mamas and The Papas sound like they are singing Creeque Alley in an empty room with no happy jangle of guitars. And the horse clip clops of God Only Knows are soft. At least the proclaimers still sound awesome.

In the pictures on my wall, James Dean is always looking at me no matter which part of the room I am at, and Paul is always holding a teacup, looking out the train window, and in another he is at the piano, and Ringo poses in his polkadotted shirt. John is looking out from under an umbrella.

At percussion class yesterday we continued practicing for the little concert exam, and we played pieces related to weather. One is Hurricane (and I'm supposed to play the steel drums except we don't have them so I have to use this malay instrument of heavy golden bells like a mini royal xylophone) and there's the weather movement series, of which we're playing Spring Wind, a light and lovely piece with a jungle feel, and Storm Warning and Dance, an intriguing and rather mad piece. I never really could follow a conductor perfectly. But it's amazing. People standing in front of instruments, with someone leading them all. And out of nothing, they all enter a counting of beats and create a something that came from the mind of someone they've never met imagining how weather or a big happy green field on a summer's day would become music, and mutter '1, 2, 3, 4' under their breaths, and somehow enter this other world, all following nothing but this intangible counting of beats and try to play their loudest when the score reads 'ffff' like someone trying to type a bad word on a typewriter. And I hit a gigantic golden nipple of a gong. And then kiap the big mallet under my armpit like an auntie and grab my drumsticks so I can play the tomtom part coming up very uncoolly. And dainty girls' arms float up and down above the xylophone, marimba, with bouncing red and yellow yarn mallets, playing lovely sounds. Someone else scrapes a suspended cymbal. And I hit the middle of the gigantic golden nipple with all my might.